Then youthful box, which now hath graceYour houses to renew,Grown old, surrender must his placeUnto the crisped yew.

When yew is out, then birch comes in,And many flowers beside,Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,To honour Whitsuntide.

Green rushes then, and sweetest bents,With cooler oaken boughs,Come in for comely ornaments,To re-adorn the house.Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold;New things succeed, as former things grow old.